horse, you know."

She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back from the
mountainside to the canon that dropped on their right:

"My partner's horse is my horse, bunky--
From his fetlock to the bucking-strap,
From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap--
My partner's horse is my horse, bunky.

"My partner's gun is my gun, bunky--
From the chamber to the trigger-guard;
And the butt like a friend's hand gripping hard--
My partner's gun is my gun, bunky.

"My partner's heart is my heart, bunky--
And like matched horses galloping well,
They will beat together through heaven and hell--
My partner's heart is my heart, bunky."

He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a strong
grip.

"Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather walk with you, I'd
rather talk with you, I'd rather ride with you, I'd rather fight for
you. Jack, you're the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamest
sport."

"Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I suppose that I am."

He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the canon
and whistling the refrain of her song happily. A few moments later
they swung out onto the very crest of the range.

On all sides the hills dropped away through the gloom of the evening,
brown near by, but falling off through a faint blue haze and growing
blue-black with the distance. A sharp wind, chill with the coming of
night, cut at them. Not a hundred feet overhead shot a low-winging
hawk back from his day's hunting and rising only high enough to clear
the range and then plunge down toward his nest.

Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into the
profound gloom of the valley below. They shaded their eyes and studied
it with a singular interest for long moments, patient, silent, quiet as
the hawk when he steadies himself in leisurely circles high in the
heart of heaven and fixes his eyes surely on his prey far, far
below--then folds his wings and shoots suddenly down, a veritable bolt
from the blue.

So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and then
pointed down. He followed the direction she indicated, and there,
through the haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.

He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll have a devil of a ride to
get there."

And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope. It was
precipitous in many places, but Pierre kept a